Written Fate
by mizukiryu73
Summary: Some say fate is written, that the path the soul takes is etched in stone. But the soul is a many splendored thing, and is not so easily defined.
1. Wanderings of the Mind

Chapter 1 - Wanderings of the Mind

**Lost**

Harry isn't quite sure how his mission sneaking into the Ministry had gone so wrong. The time seemed to pass in dull flashes, the only constant the insubstantial weight of the prophecy orb bouncing against his leg as he dodged the vividly surreal spell fire of his attackers. He knew he'd managed to nearly lose them once, but in the process he'd been separated from his friends. Luckily, or not, the Death Eaters were far more intent on capturing him, and the distant parts of Harry's mind hoped that his friends would remain safe until help could arrive.

Not that any help given to them would be of any use to him, lost as he was in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. The rooms had long since lost any obviously discernible sense of meaning the deeper Harry fled, leaving him both unknowing of the experiments he passed and unable to find anything indicating a way out.

So, he continued running, ducking into a small hallway filled with what appeared to be either an abundance of overly large broom cupboards or painfully tiny offices. Knowing his attackers would not remain out of sight for long, Harry quickly set to work seeing if any of the doors would open. Not quite frantic, Harry tried every door, only finding success on the last. Which looked particularly ominous, shrouded in the murky shadows cast by the sole light flickering at the hallway opening as it was. At any other time, Harry would have tried to find shelter elsewhere, but the increasingly loud shouts of his pursuers forced his hand.

Swiftly entering the room, he cast about for anything within that might hold the door shut. His search was depressingly brief, as the only thing in the room was a small plinth with a book resting upon it. Despite being quite plain, Harry found himself unable to look away. In fact, he never heard the lock click over, so enraptured was he by gently tracing the single word on the cover. It seemed strangely (_achingly_) familiar, for all it looked an unreadable variant of some foreign runic alphabet. He completely disregarded (could not even _hear_) the muffled shouts from the other side of the door that entreated him to walk away, to leave the room.

Instead, he gingerly lifted the cover, fingers swiftly but carefully flipping through the pages. He does not (_can_ not) hear the voices cease their desperate shouts, to be quickly replaced with hushed and awed whispers, augmented by a voice heavy with power as he stopped his search on a seemingly random page that was empty of any ink. He did not feel the sudden spike in pressure as the newest voice began chanting a spell to open the door, his attention was so focused on the spiky runes that had quickly filled the page as his fingers traced the letters at the top of the page. Indeed, he did not even notice his vision go black as he slumped bonelessly to the floor, just as the door disappeared in a flash of white smoke and a muffled bang.

In that moment all he knew was the single word dancing in the darkness behind his eyelids.

_Thorin_.

**Wyrm**

He is twenty-four when the dragon attacks his home, and in that moment he has never hated anything so fiercely as he _hates _that wyrm. He does not even hate the havoc caused by his Grandfather's gold sickness, whose steady decline into madness had long led the war between fear and hate in his heart. Now it simply fills him with disgust, because he must divert precious attention from rescue efforts to ensure Father successfully got Grandfather out of the mountain.

Despair wells up as he watched the scraggling line of survivors fleeing the mountain, the once large population of Erebor reduced to a few thousand desperate refugees. The Elves of Mirkwood had long since turned their backs. The Men of Dale were as helpless as the Dwarves, their homes too victim to the dragon's wrath. (And he knows the cloying smell of burning flesh will haunt his dreams, because it suffocates in the heavy air.)

The only shining spot in the darkness of the desolation was that both his siblings were safe. Although Frerin was barely 20 and Dís had just reached her tenth year, both were attempting to burrow into his side, leaching what little comfort he could offer. Even then, not more than three hours after their home had fallen, Thorin knew it would fall to him to ensure _they _remained safe, even more so than the rest of his people. Because for now Grandfather was still king, but Mother was dead and Father was already preoccupied with ensuring Grandfather remained alive.

With that in mind, Thorin pulled his little sister up into his arms and gently dislodged his brother to set Frerin to gathering up the dwarves. Because night was falling, and Thorin could tell by the argument erupting between Father and Grandfather that he needed to see it done. But even as he watches the makeshift camp take shape, he could not shake the doubts that seeped into his thoughts.

Because he is only _twenty-four_, and for all of his lessons in leadership, he has only just been allowed to sit on the Council for this past summer. He is still but a novice in the trade of the line of Durin, and his weapons training, while advancing, could hardly be called anything more than barely passing the level of a journeyman in the Guard if one described it generously. He can only be grateful that he was at weapons practice when the dragon attacked, and that he managed to keep hold of his sword in his haste to see his family safely out of the mountain. But his single blade would be of little use to anyone else, for most had fled with only the clothes on their backs. Their only hope for supplies would be in Laketown, but it was little more than a trading outpost of Dale. However, it would already be a weakened with the refugees of the fallen city, and little aid would be spared for the dwarves.

These thoughts tugged at his mind for several hours, before he could finally fall into an uneasy sleep filled with strange dreams. But when he wakes, the memory of them is long gone, and all that lingers is a deep sense of unease and what must be a name lingering in his throat. It is something that he swiftly buries as he faces the day and his newfound responsibilities.

Still...

Who _was _Harry Potter?

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AN: What can I say, I've fallen into the Hobbit fandom, and my muse attacked. Of course, following my usual fanfic ideas, my muse also demanded Harry as Thorin. This is currently planned as a 4 chapter fic. Updates should be regular, and I'm planning to do posts every other week or so.

Please don't forget to review!

~Ja ne!


	2. Bellator Rex

Chapter 2 - Bellator Rex

**Azanulbizar**

By the time Thorin reaches his 54th year, he is almost surprised to be alive, for the last thirty years have not been kind. Especially this last decade, with the ascension of father - _Thrain _- to the throne following the death of Thrór - _grandfather _- and the war, now only a few months done. While the war is over, however, Thorin can find no joy in it.

Yes, he supposes that he and his fellows were victorious, but at what cost? Azog and a great deal of his ilk may be dead, but so were thousands of dwarrow. Including his brother. Dead for a home they could not even claim.

He could not bear to imagine the look on his sister's face when she had received the news. He dreaded that his arrival in Dunland would bring even more ill news, for he had not been there when Dís had needed him. Even so, he wished for the next few days to pass quickly so that he could finally see her, hopefully in the best health she could be.

For father, already distant before was now even more so. Thrain was seemed constantly lost in thought, caught up in the loss of both Erebor and Moria. So, that would leave Thorin to once again offer what comfort he could to his sister, little better than he had be able to when Erebor fell, because he had always felt himself quite inept with such things. (Because Thrain is a good king, but his time for family has steadily diminished since the fall of Erebor.)

A bone deep weariness settled over him with that thought, and in his fatigue, he was barely able to keep down a sigh. It was almost enough to make him wish for the world of his dreams. For while he'd long since gotten used to the strangeness of them, and despite their sometimes unhappy nature, even he was not above wishing for that sort of easy, magical life.

Still, he could not to dwell for long, for he has many responsibilities. (And swirling in the back of his mind is the half-remembered warning, "_it does not do to dwell on dreams._")

**Long Live**

By the time Thorin receives news of his father's death, he has long since ceased to care. He has been running the settlement at Ered Luin for over a decade now with just his sister's help, and had been taking on most of his father's duties for longer than that. Because Thrain left on longer and longer flights of fancy until he simply stopped returning. In a way, Thorin is almost glad his father is now in Mandos's Hall, for there maybe Thrain can escape the madness that had plagued him since the battle of Anzulbizar.

He does not let it give him pause, as if his oldest friend had not just entered his forge to inform him of his father's death. There is always work to be done, and he will not let a momentary distraction interrupt him. It is too important that his people continue to live well after so many years of hardship.

That Thorin is barely 95 and now a King without a mountain is not lost on him, however, nor is the fact that he supports himself with a commoner's work. But for all that Thrór and Thrain would have baulked, it is not a sacrifice to him to make things besides weapons.

There will be no grand celebration, for which Thorin is grateful. The decades since his father's coronation have been kinder for Erebor's lost children, but Thorin has no desire to drain what little extra his people have in their coffers to throw a party reminiscent of the kingdom's glory days. The only concession he makes for the occasion is stopping early, so that he will be there get home from her own work as a jeweler.

Because for all that he is technically a king now, family always comes first. So when his sister enters their small home, he is there waiting with a gentle smile. Suddenly, they are but twenty-four and ten, with Dís burrowing once more into Thorin's chest. Neither of them cry, for all that they moum the man they once called father and King, but Thorin still gives what comfort he can.

They spend the night not quite reminiscing over several drinks, and that is all their mourning. For the next day, Thorin will return to his forge and the plans for a trade caravan to the Iron Hills, and Dís will return to her jewelry and the welcoming arms of her One.

And if his strange dreams are intent on reminding him that he cannot run from his responsibilities, he pays them the heed any would give over redundant portents. He acknowledges them, and keeps working.

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AN: Ok, here's the next chapter! And I managed to get it done in almost exactly two weeks, so maybe I can keep some kind of update schedule!

I forgot to mention it last chapter, but three awesome, amazing people looked over these chapters for me. Dannichigo, MyDearGoddessofthemoonandsun, and Yizuki are super awesome!

Anyway, thank you so much for all the follows, favs and reviews! Hope you all like this chapter, and please don't forget to review!

~Ja Ne!


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